Tricks
by v2point0
Summary: It's Hallow's Eve, Sarah and John are drunk off their rockers and Sherlock is out. Being this a holiday for friendly pranks, the lushes decide to have some fun.


Posting this a little late, though I did complete it on Halloween. WELL, WHATEV.

**Title**: Tricks  
**Rating**: PG  
**Warnings**: mostly profanity  
**Summary**: BBC _Sherlock_. It's Hallow's Eve, Sarah and John are drunk off their rockers and Sherlock is out. Being this a holiday for some fun pranks, the lushes decide to have some fun. John/Sarah  
**A/N**: I've been meaning to write this for a month or so now, but decided to wait until Halloween. Hope ya'll enjoy. :) Please excuse any grammar errors, as I wrote and proofread this while tired. Also, if something isn't very... British-y, just remember, I'm American, derp.  
**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

* * *

_Danny's_ was a downtown London bar, famous for its authentic Irish dishes and brews. Every Hallow's Eve and Halloween, they held a celebration from 5 PM to 12 PM, serving all beers and spirits half-off as they would Happy Hour every evening. The alcohol had been dyed in oranges and red for the holiday, and if you ordered a pint, you had your choice of dessert for only one pound. Needless to say, it attracted the attention of many, turning the usually humble little pub into an uproar of festivity and cheerful folk looking for good but cheap booze.

It had been a perfect outing for a very impersonal date between John and Sarah, though truth be told, it had been the latter who offered. _Danny's_ had been a favorite of hers, and she was all too eager to expose John to its rich and fun atmosphere. They had made their way to the pub a little before five, which was all ready filled with many excited patrons. By the time the party started, more people kept flooding in. This included a variety of men and women in their Halloween costumes, including a mummy made of medical wrap and toilet paper, a very promiscuous witch, and a guy wearing a horse mask.

Though there were bound to be some very obnoxious drunks (mummy included, who was all ready tipsy when he arrived), the two found a small spot at the back of the bar and enjoyed their pints over fun and lighthearted conversation more between friends than a couple.

Two hours turned to four, and before eleven could roll around, the two happy drunks made their way out, arm in arm, laughing at nothing in particular. Or perhaps it was the fact the werewolf-man had a huge argument with his sexy snake-lady girlfriend which led to a smack to the hairy face, and snake-lady screeching about how she got "brown gunk and fake fur all over her bloody hand" for the whole neighborhood to hear.

Unfortunately, both had found their wallets near empty, save John just enough to make it back to Baker Street, the closest of the two locations.

"Are you sure Shurrlock won't min'?" Sarah slurred as she hailed a cabbie.

"He's out on a case," John assured. He had double checked if the consulting detective was still out of the flat before even suggesting the idea of going to his place. A text ought to do, except the numbers on his phone seemed to blur together. He tried anyhow.

_comming w/ sarah 2 flat arre you. there ?_

Ten minutes later, he received a reply.

_Case work. Will not be home until late. Also, take heed: never again text me when you are drunk.  
- SH_

John showed Sarah the message and they both burst into laughter before crawling into the cab.

* * *

IIIII

* * *

After loudly wishing their driver a "Happy Hallow's Eveween" with a handful of cash, John and Sarah made their way inside the flat. "Evenin', Mrs. Hudson," John greeted as he helped Sarah out of her coat.

Mrs. Hudson smiled from her door, cradling an orange plastic pumpkin full of candy. "Just remember not to throw up on the floors, dear," she purred.

A minute later, the two entered the flat. Sarah had been warned after the entire smuggling fiasco that Sherlock was a bit of "neat freak" in a "chaotic way". And to watch out for anything that may or may not make her ill or piss herself. So when she saw all the photos of dead corpses on the dining room table, as well as the fingers bathing in alcohol in a wine glass, she knew not to touch or make comment. Still, it was slightly unnerving.

"I'll think of it as him decorating for the season," Sarah giggled, the bubbles still swishing around in her brain.

John chuckled. "S'not much for celebrations that involve - involve good, clean fun." He nearly stubbed his toe drunkenly tripping for some water. He returned, offered her a glass. "I do hope the dye won't stay for more than a few hours," he noted after seeing Sarah's tongue turned a soft orange. They each gulped the water down, John shaking his head as it washed away the lingering taste of ale.

"I thought someone like Shurrlock woulda - woulda appreciate Halloween," Sarah replied.

"You would," John said, "but I'd hate to be the kid who trick-er-treated at 'is door."

Both of them could only imagine the shocking scenario. A little flock of boys and girls in their peppy costumes, all eager eyes and grubby hands. "Trick or treat!" they'd exclaim and shove out their baskets or bags. And Sherlock would deny them candy, comment on their dental records, insult their parents in the process; if he couldn't see their faces, take note of something else and announce it much to everyone's chagrin. Tell them about a case he worked on where a trio of kids were murdered from poisoned Halloween candy. Or maybe he'd give them something - hardly candy, perhaps an actual tooth or dead woman's fingernail, evidence of old cases he no longer needed nor wanted. "'Tis the season," he would say in a deadpan voice as the parents scrambled their frightened, sobbing children away.

It was both hilarious and frightening as Hell, but the two laughed anyway. "Well, sure - surely he celebrated Hallo'een when he was a bitty thing." Sarah chugged her water. "I all most miss it. Guaranteed cavity after every one."

"My sister always stole mine," John snickered.

"Think we ought to give 'im somethin'?" Sarah suggested. It seemed she was engrossed with the idea of putting Sherlock in the holiday mood. She dug in her pants pocket. "I've got one o' those free mints from the pub."

John chortled. "He's not one for candy."

"An old paper clip?"

"That sounds better."

The two moved to the sofa with refills of water, plopping down clumsily. Sarah took notice of the old nicotine patch splayed over the armrest, but said nothing, keeping her arm at her side. "Ah, yes," she gulped, holding her glass to him, "John, I wanna thank you for participating in the - the costume theme Friday thinger-bit."

Hospital administration had suggested the staff dress up a little, mostly in the pediatric department, just to give their younger patients a kick. Flu season was hanging in the air, and many shots would be passed around. Perhaps if their doctor looked a little silly, they might not wail as loudly. Though full dress-up was prohibited, a little make-up and flair was allowed. Sarah had come in wearing a witch hat and black cat pin; John hadn't intended to participate until she offered him a halo. He agreed, albeit a little reluctantly, wearing it only when he saw her or younger patients.

"Margaret, my oldest patient, said it fit me," John retorted, making a circle around his head, "the halo, that is."

Sarah made a small 'aww' and reached over to pat-pat him on the cheek. "Well, she was right," she half-teased. Suddenly, an idea struck her and she snapped her fingers, bolting to a straight sit. John nearly choked on his water. "I've got an idea, I've got a bloody well good great idea!" she giggled.

"Wot?"

Sarah looked at him, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "Y'know how you told me Sherlock knew nothing, or even - even cared, about the solar system?" she asked. John nodded before shaking his head at the memory. "He's always wearing those bloody black coats of 'is. How many do'ya think he owns?"

"I gather 'bout five."

"Any duplicates?"

"Mm, think he has two of one brand." John nodded. "Very expensive, despite how he hardly takes money offered to him."

Sarah bit her bottom lip. "Right, that won't do," she hummed, "anything cheap or old and worn?"

John thought a moment. "Ahh, yes!" he pointed. "He has, uh, he was one. Wears it once inna while. Old, he says, not gonna be 'round for much longer."

"Well, that's perfect!" Sarah clapped. "Where is it? Do'ya know?"

"Probably in the hamper with the mountain of his other dirty clothes." John could follow him all around London, dig in his pants for his cellphone, and hold a dead squid for a moment as he got his equipment (something John thought he filtered out of his memories), but like Hell he was going to do his laundry, too. Taking a note from Mrs. Hudson, not his (part of the flat) housekeeper.

"Can you go an' fetch it? Also, do you have any colored paper? Glue?"

John squinted. "What are you gettin' at?"

"It's a surprise." Sarah's grin was almost mad. "I mean, if you're not up to - to a little old fashioned prank, I under - "

John stood up. "Now see here," he said firmly, "back in my day, I played some bloody good pranks. Egging a house? Pudding. Lots and lots of pudding." That was his 'nuh uh!' With that, he marched off, leaving Sarah giggling over her water. There was a slam of drawers and agitated grunts before John reappeared a few minutes later, old black coat slung over one arm, pile of multicolored papers, and glue in hand. He dropped them all on the floor, which was cleaner than the table, then gave a giant 'see?' hand wave over it.

"Wonderful," Sarah chortled wickedly. She went to the floor, on all fours, knocking over a stack of DVDs. She giggled, hardly concerned.

"You mind tellin' me now what you 'ave planned?" John asked.

Sarah sat cross-legged, pulled the coat into her lap. "Well, Sherlock 'as no interest in the solar system, and I was thinkin' how his - his coats always looked like bloody black holes..." She wiggled her eyebrows as John's alcohol sullied mind put two and two together. "We got space, all we need now" - she paused, held up a yellow sheet of paper - "are the stars an' planets."

"You're insane. That's insane. He'd kill his," John stated. He frowned. "Let's bloody do this." Then disappeared again to find some scissors.

* * *

IIIII

* * *

John had a very, very vague sense of dread that was most likely his sober, logical side telling him this wasn't a good idea. Though Sherlock was going to throw the coat out soon enough, gluing, and then stitching, paper stars, planets, and moons on it was a bit ridiculous. In a dangerous sort of way. But the rest of his brain was too drunk to give a flying fuck.

They spent nearly an hour cutting out the designs, patching and gluing them on. Sarah even added a stereotypical green alien to his collar. It was a wonder they could cut out anything that wasn't just lopsided excuses for circles and shreds for stars. Granted, Jupiter and Venus were looking pretty pathetic, and neither were even going to attempt Saturn. Not like Sherlock would notice anyway.

They felt like little kids again, laughing at how crazy all of this was. In the process of their masterpiece, they spoke of their childhoods, all fond ones, all of them weird or crazy little moments. John learned Sarah had crashed her tricycle into a pole, and Sarah learned John lost his first tooth from Harry slapping him in the face with a plastic baby doll.

There was a moment of fear and alarm when Mrs. Hudson declared they'd be receiving a visitor. Hoping it wasn't a client, Lestrade, or one of his henchman, John nervously opened the flat door a crack, looking down to see a six year old boy in a Tron outfit. "Trick or treat!" he yelled, holding up his pillow sack.

"He wanted to try everyone in the building," Mrs. Hudson giggled.

John smiled weakly. "'Fraid I don't have candy." The boy glowered darkly and John flinched. "Well, let me... Hold on." He shut the door, turned to Sarah. "You still got that mint, yeah?" She nodded and tossed it to him; after fumbling with it in his hands, he opened the door and dropped it in the kid's bag. "There you go."

"Just one piece?"

"Your bag is all ready considerably heavy," John stated, not needing to be a genius to deduce that, "you'll survive." With that he shut the door and returned back to his project. Not before telling Mrs. Hudson not to let anymore imps upstairs. She winked like she did when she thought John was fooling around, but usually it was a wink reserved for moments between him and Sherlock, much to his dismay.

It was getting late, and soon Sherlock would be home. Sarah and John finished up, cleaning up their mess while still leaving bits of paper scattered on the floor. Not much later afterward, the two could feel the onset of sobering; John kindly paid her cabbie and sent her on her way, to call once she got home so he knew she hadn't tripped up her stairs in a dazed fit.

By 12:45, Sherlock was still not home. John's head began to pound as exhaustion washed over him. He left the coat inside out, to appear harmless, on the recliner and dragged his stone feet upstairs. John didn't bother to change or get under the blankets, just fell on his stomach in an awkward splay and drooled into his pillow.

* * *

IIIII

* * *

John woke to a jackhammer drilling into his brain.

The process of waking took a good fifteen minutes. First came the burning pain of sunlight in his eyes, then the beating to his poor head. He massaged his temples for a good minute, attempting to work away the ache. All the while trying to remember half of what he did last night. With a little of the tension subsiding, John gathered painfully to his feet and all but walked to the bathroom. A shower sounded nice, but for now, a quick rub down of hot water on his face and something to drink to ease out the pain.

Jesus, did he drink an entire liquor store last night?

John headed to the kitchen, his body feeling weighed down by anvils. He spotted Sherlock on the sofa, still in his clothes from the night before, sifting through papers. He probably hadn't slept, but he looked no worse for wear. John greeted him with a 'good morning', which came out as, "G'mrn."

Sherlock did not reply. John didn't care, really. He had been smart enough to buy tomato juice before his date last night. It had seemed to help Harry a great deal with her hang-overs; she practically gave him an extensive list over the phone. The sound of ruffled papers and frantic footfalls but no peep or word became something a bit awkward for John, all ready in an awkward state.

"So," he breathed, pouring himself a glass, "how was the case? Did you solve it? Dumb question."

"Tedious," Sherlock answered. "But not all together boring."

"That so?" John wasn't paying complete attention. The tomato juice tasted like shit. "Run into any trouble?"

"Two teenagers, both boys, dressed like something out of some cartoon, heckling about our crime scene being a 'totally dull, poor excuse for Halloween scares'," Sherlock explained. He stopped, scratched his head, whirled around.

John snorted.

"I told them otherwise."

John swallowed. "... Just the truth about the scene, or..."

Sherlock threw more papers out from behind the TV. "Just a few observations and deductions," he muttered, concentrating on his search.

"Did they cry?"

"Only one. The second attempted to physically assault me. Lestrade went to stop him. Managed to do so, if you count taking a fist in the face as stopping him."

John couldn't help but laugh. "The poor sod," he sighed.

"Speaking of which," the detective replied, looking to his flatmate, "he ought to be here in - three minutes." He sized John up, not in a way of studying, but simply taking him in. "You should change. The beer stain on your sweater does not compliment the dreadful blue lines."

John blinked. "It can't be more than 7 or so..."

"On the contrary, it's nearly noon."

The doctor gaped. "Christ."

Exactly three minutes later, there came a knock and John politely got the door. Lestrade and another officer nodded an 'afternoon', the former sporting a lovely purple and blue shiner. "Sherlock awake?" the detective inspector inquired.

"When isn't he?"

John let them inside, returning to the kitchen for more juice. Sherlock gave a loud 'aha!' and held out a piece of paper to the officers. "You'll find all you'll need here to connect Marley to Shang," he explained.

Lestrade blinked and took the paper. His eyes bulged as he read it. "This is - "

Sherlock swished a hand. "Do you have Marley in custody?"

"Yes. S'why I came," Lestrade replied. "He wishes to speak specifically to you. Won't talk with anyone else."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "A waste of time, he'd break without me if you give him another two hours," he informed. Lestrade gave a small shrug and the consulting detective sighed. "John," he said, without looking back, "let's go."

John blinked, all frumpy clothes still reeking of beer and cowlicked hair. "Mm'not exactly dressed for the occasion," he mumbled.

"You act as if we're going to a ball."

"No, but - "

"Put on a coat, run a hand through your hair, let's go," Sherlock practically ordered. John sighed and finished off his juice. As he went back to his room, there came a small snicker from the unnamed officer.

"Um, Sherlock."

That was Lestrade, sounding very baffled.

"Your coat."

What about Sherlock's c- _Oh, Jesus Christ_. John slapped himself on the head, too shocked and terrified to register the pain. He whirled around, mouth dry as he went to apologize. Only to stop, the surprise increasing at the sight. Sherlock had pulled on the nearest coat, which happened to be the one John and Sarah had vandalized. He stood there in the black robe, all tacky and gaudy in its yellow stars and pink, blue and green planets.

Sherlock looked down, the tip of a star poking his chin. "Hmm." That was all. And that was frightening.

Lestrade repressed a grin. "Dare I ask what happened...?"

Then Sherlock's cold gaze was on John. But there was a smile, a smile that could kill, it was so potent. John felt his heart drop and burn in his stomach acid. "It's a rather long story, from what I've deduced so far," Sherlock purred, fucking _purred_. "One that begins before John took a five minute long piss at 3 AM, successfully missing the toilet, and longer after he spent an hour expelling the orange dyed pints of alcohol he consumed, now hugging the toilet, and singing 'Carol of the Bells' around his retching." He tilted his head. "Correct, John?"

The doctor's cheeks were burning. "I." He was tongue tied, looking at the new officer hiding his laughter behind a hand, Lestrade's wide eyed gaze on him. "W-Well."

"Those are just the obvious facts, no need for my services there. They are related, however. Now, as for the rest of the story..."

John wanted to crawl in a hole and die.

END


End file.
